


An Education

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Food Sex, I think that's everything?, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Pegging, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is much to be learned about and from gentle, pious Willas Tyrell.</p>
<p>Sansa intends to learn all of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discipline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wickedg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedg/gifts).



> So this started off as a kinkmeme fill that gained legs and became a sort of bloated... Thing, wherein instead of it just being about spanking it's several different kinks... 
> 
> So yeah. Um. It's absolutely shameless porn, of which I'm mildly embarrassed because WHY IS IT SO LONG but there you go. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part comes before Honey, which was the bit that was originally posted, and actually fits the prompt that originally inspired this. So. Happy reading :)

It is his own fault, really, and Sansa still isn’t sure if she’s perturbed by the whole thing or not.

It began during one of their baths – they often bathe together, enjoying the peace and near-guarantee of not being interrupted, which is so rare because Willas is so active in his role as Lord of Highgarden, and because Willas insists that she smells absolutely glorious when wet, and because she likes having him pressed entirely against her without having to worry about his leg – when he was being abominable, teasing her right to the edge of release and then settling back with his arms on the rim of the tub to speak of some trivial matter or other.

Of course, he does that at least once a week, gods willing more often, so really she should not have been so vexed by his childishness, but she found herself overcome with pique when he clambered out of the tub with nothing more than a kiss to her shoulder and a wickedly teasing grin.

She hadn’t _meant_ to slap him, particularly not on the backside, but she’d lost control of her temper so completely that her hand had lashed out without her permission, and the sound of it had echoed around their room.

She’d expected him to either laugh or look at her in outright shock. What she hadn’t expected was for his head to go up and a flush to spread over his neck, flooding across his cheeks and his chest until he looked fit to catch light.

Neither of them mentioned it, but Sansa filed it away for further consideration.

 

* * *

 

She’s done it again since, to verify her conclusions, and she finds herself constantly torn between perversion and arousal at how he reacts to every swat she levels across his backside.

He has – something the gossip Elayne Tarly is always _certain_ to ensure reaches Sansa’s ears assures her – a very nice bottom, something she’s rather more privy to than the girls and maidens who whisper about the beautiful, ruined lord when they think his beautiful, sad wife cannot hear. However, no matter that his bottom is firm and really very shapely, it does not explain quite why she’s so fascinated with how he behaves when she- when she _spanks_ him like a child in need of a reprimand.

When he makes a particularly crude jape, she swipes the back of her hand across the very top of his thigh and he gasps almost as if she’s fallen to her knees and pulled open his breeches (and she has, once or twice, when he makes that sound, because there is something intoxicating about the sounds he makes when he's falling apart). 

When he steals away her lemoncakes at dinner – something he does with an irritating regularity, because he loves them almost as much as she does but has a much greater appetite for near enough everything, and she’s never understood how he can eat so much and not be as fat as his father was – and then scampers away as best his leg allows, she slaps open-handed across both buttocks, and he looks at her with such incredible heat in his eyes that really, it’s all she can do not to tackle him to the ground there and then.

It comes to a head one night perhaps three weeks after that bath, when he rolls over on top of her in bed, supporting himself on his arms as he sucks his way around one of her nipples and refuses, despite her breathless, desperate requests – nay, orders – to actually so much as touch it.

Temper – no, not temper, really, more frustration – flaring, she does what has seemed to have worked in recent weeks, and she slaps him.

He moans, mouth suddenly around her nipple, and Sansa knows that she has uncovered a very valuable weapon.

She’s too shy yet to push it further, beyond the occasional slap when he’s not doing as she wishes, but eventually she will become sure enough of herself to go far, far beyond that.

 

* * *

 

Like the spanking – something she’s become more comfortable with in the weeks since discovering just how effective it can be in getting what she wants – this new business began in the bath, too, but this time Sansa was the one playing torturer.

“Sansa, Sansa, please, please, I _need_ you-“ he was begging, hips lifting up to follow her when she lifted herself high on her knees over him with a smile, leaning heavily on his wrists where he’d draped his arms over the sides of the bath. “ _Please,_ love-“

She grinned and leaned it to taste the thin skin over his collarbone, but when he tried to move, to touch her, she pressed his hands down firmly, and… And he stayed. He let her hold him down, let her have complete control over him, let her take charge.

It set her thinking, although it took another fortnight before she was brave enough to try it again.

 

* * *

 

“Stay down,” she orders him, feeling flushed and giddy and absolutely terrified that she was wrong, that he will think her perverted and sick for this, but when she stretches his hands over his head and then reaches for her discarded stockings, his eyes go wide and darker even than they were while she stripped to her nightgown for him so slowly earlier. Gods, she’s never felt so nervous in their bed since their wedding night, when he was so exquisitely gentle with her. “Do as you’re told,” she says sharply when he fidgets as she binds him, and he stops fighting and watches her with placid face and eyes so hot she can feel them burning her skin.

“Sansa,” he breathes, straining up to kiss her and groaning in disappointment when she leans too far away. “What prompted this, sweetling?”

She doesn’t know, if she’s being honest, and she feels almost foolish for tying him down now because she’s not sure what she actually planned on _doing_ with him.

“Not that I’m objecting,” he assures her, shifting until he’s more comfortable, his good leg bent at the knee but otherwise the full length of his lovely, lean frame stretched out for her inspection. “But it is somewhat… Unprecedented.”

She doesn’t know how he does it, talks endlessly and _entirely_ coherently no matter what she does to him, but he never seems to lose control of his faculties the way she does. It would be more infuriating if she didn’t _enjoy_ losing control quite as much as she does under his hands, on his mouth, when he uses those obscenely filthy wonderful words of his, kisses them into her skin and makes good on his terrible, glorious promises in the dark of their rooms (and in his sunny study, and under the stars in the gardens, and in the shadows in the library, and…), but she does enjoy it so she can’t truly mind.

Still, she’d like the chance to learn his body the way he knows hers, because every time she tries to start an expedition of her own she never gets much further than his shoulders, because he sets his hands to work and she just… falls apart.

But now, his hands are tied up above his head (she worries that her stockings may hurt his wrists, thinks that mayhaps she will use her scarves, the fine silk ones, next time), and he is so very handsome laid out in the shifting light of the stained glass lanterns on their nightstands, the golden-tinted glass lending a beautiful bronze cast to his skin, catching on the warm hazel in his deep green eyes and the golden-red in his thick brown hair, glinting on the heavy signet ring he wears on his left hand.

“Sansa?” he prompts, tilting his head and trailing his gaze from her bent knees up along her body until his eyes meet hers. “Is there a purpose to this, or do you just like the look of me tied down like this?”

She kisses him then, and he murmurs in soft approval as his lips part under hers, lifts his head to kiss deeper into her mouth and, when she leans back on her heels, his hands flex and strain towards her, fingers clutching fruitlessly at the warm air. For some reason, that strikes her as hilariously funny, and she tips her head back and laughs until the mood has passed.

When she looks back to him, he's watching her with such soft eyes that she has to kiss him again, slow and sweet and the faintest hint of tart lemoncakes lingering on his tongue. 

But then she pulls back, and presses her hand over his mouth before he can speak.

“Quiet,” she orders softly, and he watches her, curious and hungry but silent, remaining perfectly still but for the shift of his hips when she moves to straddle him. “Don't move, please.”

He grins at that, and she wonders if it's silly to say _please_ when she has tied him to their bed and ordered him quiet, but she finds that she does not care.

He does look beautiful, stretched out underneath her in the lantern light, long fingers twisting through the spare lengths of stocking and eyes heavy and hot.

He gasps when she bites his collarbone the first time, but it is a sort of gasp that she has come to know well. She has considered this – is it just being slapped he likes? Is it just on the bottom? – and has decided to combine her experiments, to test how far she might push him before he is disgusted by her.

A great way, she begins to think as he shudders to the scrape of her teeth across his chest. A very long way indeed, she wonders, as her nails dig hard into his sides, scratch bright red lines down his belly, come close to breaking the skin of his hips.

He cries out her name when she presses a kiss to the base of his cock, hips lifting despite her hold on him, and something creaks with the effort he's putting into escaping his bonds.

She still isn't entirely sure what to do when she does this for him – not like when he settles between her legs, when he kisses her- her- her _cunt_ – but he seems to like it no matter what she does, so she tries not to worry too much. He still feels strange in her mouth, and her jaw is always sore afterwards, but he just...

She pays no attention to the desperate filth he gasps at her, instead focuses on not choking on him and on the way the tendons in his arms stand out under his skin when he tosses his head against the pillows and arches his back, whimpering and pleading for his release, for-

She pulls her mouth off him with an audible pop, and he groans in disappointment.

Sansa likes having him tied down _very_ much, she decides, settling her knees on either side of his hips and crossing her hands to the hem of her nightgown, drawing it over her head in one smooth movement. Once, she might have been too afraid to do this, but she has come to love the way he looks at her, the way his eyes trace her breasts and the curve of her hip with an almost physical weight.

Part of her wants to untie his hands and have him touch her, to take his hands and show him precisely where she wants to be touched, and how, but a larger part of her wonders if she might drive him mad if she were to...

He groans again when she cups her breasts in her own hands, testing the weight of them the way he sometimes does when they are in the bath and she is sitting with her back to his chest. 

He groans, but he does not look away.

It's thrilling – everything in him in straining towards her, and that as much as the practiced touch of her hands (he does spend such a lot of time away, after all, and she misses him desperately so _of course_ her hands are practiced) excites her.

“You're so _beautiful,”_ he sighs, and she bites her lip before bracing her hands on either side of his head and leaning in to kiss him again, biting _his_ lip and tugging it gently as she leans away, then dipping her head and nipping at his jaw, down his neck, biting harder than she thinks she ought on the bump of his throat but he moans so she doesn't care. “Will you- will you touch yourself again? _Please?”_

So she does – she sits up, settling down across his hips and bringing her hands to her own skin once more, watching him watch her as her fingers trail around her breasts, down her stomach and _oh-_

“So perfect,” he groans, bucking underneath her as she slips a finger inside herself, panting and wild-eyed. She sees a bead of sweat roll down from his temple into his beard before her eyes flutter shut and she tips her head back, two fingers curled inside herself and his cock pressing against the back of her hand. “Sansa, please Sansa, won't you let me fuck you, darling? _Please_ Sansa-”

It's a matter of moving her hand and sliding down, and there's only time for a few firm rolls of her hips before they both peak, him first and then her, and she sprawls on top of him, rising and falling with his breath as their skin cools and they come back to themselves.

“Oh,” she says faintly, lifting her head. “Your hands-”

“Mayhaps,” he says, tilting his head and grinning. “Mayhaps next time, we might use something a little softer?”


	2. Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first part posted, but actually comes after the part that is now chapter one. Yes. Okay.

Now that the weather has improved, they often take their morning meal in the gardens.

Cook often manages to pack more sweet things into the breakfast hamper than Maester Lomas approves of, because he feels that both Sansa and Willas eat more sweet things than is good for them. There are usually any number of sugary preserves, sweet loaves and scones, lemon cakes and strawberry tarts, and always, always a pot of honey.

This morning, Sansa finds herself unusually clumsy, and somehow manages to end up with a trail of honey dripping down under the loose sleeve of her morning gown. At least, she tells herself that it is clumsiness rather than her having perhaps two ounces of honey more than most people could bear on her bread.

She laughs and shakes her head at her "clumsiness," which amuses Willas, and quickly unbuttons her sleeve before the honey can stain the filmy material and ruin it.

She laughs, that is, until Willas' hand flashes out and catches her around the wrist, and when she looks at him it is to see dark eyes and that all-too-familiar flush spreading down his neck.

He rolls back her sleeve, intent on the sticky line oozing ever-closer to her elbow, and the flush in his neck deepens from rose to cerise.

"Willas-"

His mouth is at her elbow before she can even think of what she was going to say, but it doesn't really matter. He curls his tongue – she will  _never_ tire of the things he can do with his tongue – around the jut of bone and his eyes drift shut, and somehow, as he trails the very tip of his tongue up the inside of her arm to the honey, Sansa comes to the conclusion that she is in the middle of one of the most erotic experiences of her life.

He sucks the end of the dribble from her skin, lingering until Sansa feels flushed and dizzy and she's fairly certain she's trembling, and then moves further towards her wrist without opening his eyes, lips tugging at her skin in their quest to catch every drop of the syrupy sweetness.

He opens his eyes when he reaches the single dark freckle precisely halfway up her forearm, and she whimpers at the sheer intensity of his gaze. He manages to smile even as he bends his head to suck another patch of her skin clean, tongue tracing greedy patterns all the while.

Oh, this  _is_ useful to know.

When he reaches her wrist, she thinks she'll go mad with the way his tongue twists around the sharp bones, across the patchwork of veins, up over the ball of her thumb to suck first her thumb and then each of her fingers clean, eyes wide open and fixed on hers as his cheeks hollow around each finger, sending heat racing along her veins, making her clench her thighs and shift in her seat.

When even he can no longer pretend that there's still honey on her hand, he leans back in his seat looking disgustingly smug, not knowing just how educational all this was for Sansa.

* * *

She has him tied down within minutes of him climbing into bed, and his smallclothes are torn off a moment later.

"Eager tonight, little wolf," he teases with the sort of lazy confidence that belies his position, stripped naked and tied by the wrists to the posts of their enormous bed with pale blue silk scarves, his cock lying hard and flushed against his stomach. She simply smiles and, on impulse, leans over and stuffs a wadded up scarf into his mouth. He watches her move away with wide eyes, utterly stunned by this sudden and unprecedented turn of events.

"Since you so enjoyed the taste of honey from my skin earlier this morning, I thought I might try something similar myself," she says over her shoulder, crossing the room to her dressing table. She sheds her robe on the way, leaving her clad in only her most transparent shift and silk stockings tied with ribbons to match the scarves holding him in place. She takes her prize, a fat little pot glazed in the same golden-brown as the honey it holds, from her table, and returns to the bed with a spring in her step. "And you did enjoy it ever so much, my love."

He strains towards her, hands flexing against the scarves and bedposts, and she laughs.

"Poor love," she mocks, settling her knees on either side of his hips and tasting a spoonful of the honey. "Would you like some, Willas? You do like honey, don't you?"

He whimpers – shameless, that's what he is – when she dips the spoon into the pot and holds it up to drizzle a fine trail across his jaw, his neck, his shoulder.

He moans helplessly when she leans in and nibbles his jaw, sucks on his neck, licks his shoulder, and she feels a rush of confidence as she sits back up and hefts the pot once more.

The drizzle trails across his collarbones this time, then a heavier stream across the broad plane of his chest. She takes her time with this, dragging her teeth along his collarbone the way he likes and sucking sticky, messy, open-mouthed kisses across his freckles, over his chest, and-

"Oh," she laughs in response to his moan, a moan muffled by the scarf in his mouth and brought about by the flick of her tongue over his tight little nipple. "I didn't know  _that."_

She bends once more, opening her mouth over his nipple and sucking just slightly until she's rewarded with another of those delicious, broken moans.

She drizzles a thick line of honey right down the centre of his stomach, letting it pool in his navel until he shivers, sinews standing out on his arms with the effort he's putting into escaping his restraints.

Her tongue dips into his navel and he goes limp, arms hanging heavy against the silk, and she laughs again.

"Poor love," she sighs again, licking up the tense muscles of his stomach with the flat of her tongue, laughing when her hair sticks to the tacky film on his skin. "Should I take the gag from your mouth, Willas?"

He nods frantically, pleading noises leaking out around the scarf, and she sits up – carefully pressing down on his hips, on his cock – and traces a fingertip over his nipple, again and again until he whimpers again.

"Alright," she says, showing mercy and removing his gag-

"Please, Sansa, please, I need you, I need you to- please, Sansa-"

"What do you need me to do?" she asks sweetly, slipping another spoonful of honey past her lips and sucking the spoon clean. "You must tell me, dearheart, else how am I to know?"

"Fuck me," he begs, throwing back his head with a sharp cry when she rolls her hips into his. "Oh,  _gods,_ Sansa, please, fuck me, please, please-"

"You want me to fuck you?" she murmurs, tracing the line of his throat with a fingertip. She often thinks that she could break him simply by trailing a fingertip across his skin. "You want me to fuck you, Willas? You'll have to do better than that."

He moans, back arching obscenely under her, and she almost laughs once more because the power she has over him never ceases to amuse and astonish her in equal measure.

"Your cunt," he gasps, hands fisted so tight his knuckles are white and head tilted back so far she can hardly see his face. "Gods, Sansa, gods, I need your cunt, I need to feel you around my cock, please, love, please-"

Instead, she tugs the ribbons that hold her shift in place loose and lets it hang open, exposing and yet not exposing the swell of her breasts.

"You seemed to like the taste of the honey on my skin earlier," she says conversationally, rolling her hips with every other word and he moans like a whore, or at least what the japes about whores would suggest, so fierce and loud it sounds as if it's been ripped from his throat. He watches her with molten eyes as she pulls her shift over her head, as she lifts the pot of honey and pulls the spoon up.

"If I were to untie you," she murmurs, letting the honey dribble back into the pot, "what would you do?"

"I'd- Oh, Sansa, I'd have you smothered in honey, and I'd lick you clean while I fucked you, I swear it, you'd love it, I promise, please, Sansa, please, love, I need you, please-"

"So you'd pour honey over my teats?" she says, voice barely more than a whisper, as honeyed as the trail she leaves over her breasts, around her nipples, gasping at how cool the tacky liquid is on her overheated skin. "Like this, Willas?"

He groans helplessly, pulling wildly at the bonds holding him so firmly in place, and growls in defeat.

"Just like that," he gasps, voice raw and wrecked and as hot as his eyes and the flush of crimson in his cheeks. "Please, Sansa, please, I beg of you, please, let me- let me taste it, let me taste you-"

"Where else would you pour honey over me, Willas?" she asks, running the back of the spoon along his breastbone so he jerks his hips up under hers. She's right on the edge of losing control herself, not quite as far gone as he is but not far behind, and she thinks that mayhaps that's why this is all so… So  _delicious._

"Everywhere," he swears. "I'd want to taste how it would be different on every inch of you, Sansa, I'd want-"

"Where else?" she demands, setting aside the pot and leaning all her weight on his wrists, tied above his head. "I know how depraved you are, sweet boy, tell me where else you'd put the honey. Don't you trust me, Willas?"

"If you untied me," he says, sharp and breathless and hungry enough to make her cunt clench, "I'd have it all over those lovely thighs of yours, Sansa, all the places that make you moan-"

She pulls the scarves loose and he has her on her back in a flash, sucking her breasts clean with a want bordering on desperation and sharpening into a need.

She's not sure when he reached for the pot, but there's suddenly a river of gold pouring down her stomach, across her thighs almost as far as her knees, and his tongue follows its path greedily. He curls his body to reach, growling in impatience when he has to stop to adjust his bad leg, and returning to her body with intensified vigour.

"So beautiful," he moans, tongue tracing up the crease of her thigh so she can't breathe for a moment. "Gods, Sansa, let me taste you forever, never turn me away, promise me, promise me Sansa, I'll want you always, I swear it-"

It's hard to say whether his words or the honey on both their tongues is the sweeter when she pulls him roughly by his hair to kiss him, but he pulls back obediently when she whips her hand over his arse in warning when he moves to fuck her.

"Show me from where you wish to taste," she orders, settling back against the pillows that will need to be changed in the morning, now that they're stained with a sticky film like the one glistening on both their skins. "Show me, Willas."

He arranges himself at her hip, sucking on her hipbone as he lifts the pot high, and she finds herself torn between looking down to meet his eyes, burning, always burning, and watching the honey ooze down into the thick curls covering her mound-

His mouth is there almost before it, sucking her clean and then diving deeper, lower, and she keens as he rolls between her legs and just absolutely  _buries_ his face in her cunt, mouth open hot and hungry over her, tongue pressing as deep as he can reach and straining to reach deeper.

"So sweet," he moans, fingers digging into her backside as he levers her closer, shifts her so he can press deeper. "Gods, Sansa, your cunt is sweet at the best of times but now-"

She whimpers, fingers twisting stickily into the thick silk of his hair, because gods,  _gods,_ that tongue of his can do magical, miraculous things to her, and she's twisted like a hoop trying to press him harder against her, deeper into her and-

"My beautiful girl," he croons hoarsely, slipping two fingers, a third, into her and stroking that spot that she's sure didn't exist until he coaxed it into being, "my little wolf, wild for me-"

"Come here," she orders, back arched like a strung bow, but he heaves himself up so he's supported on his forearms, resting alongside her head, and she can't wait won't wait and all it takes is for her to throw her legs up around his hips, their skin sticking to each other and the bed linens and-

"Oh,  _fuck,_ Sansa," he groans, burying his face in the curve of her neck as she rolls her hips up into his, needing him, needing  _everything_ , and it's not enough, not  _nearly_ enough, so she pushes him back over onto his back, laughing dizzily at his shout of surprise.

He moans like a wanton – how curious to say such a thing of a man as quietly dignified as Willas – when she sinks down onto him, his hands dropping to her thighs and urging her to move harder, faster, and it's all so much, too much, his heart hammering under her hand and gods, it's so  _good,_ and there's a trickle of honey just under his chin that she missed somehow, so she leans in and sucks his skin clean.

The sound he makes – she can't quite qualify it, because it's neither a moan nor a curse nor a shout, even though it's somehow all three and her name as well – is enough to drive her mad, even without the fingers he curls around her and then  _into_ her, right along with his cock, and she comes with a wail and the sickly-sweet taste of honey lingering on her tongue.


	3. Toys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a kink meme prompt but I kind of didn't actually fill the prompt so I feel bad and am not linking it
> 
> Pegging though

He's whining like a bitch in heat, but he doesn't care, not when Sansa's fingers are sliding in and out, oil-slick and warm and  _gods_ , she's pressed right along the length of his side with her lips at his ear and-

"Do you like that, Willas?" she breathes, and he can only nod and bury his face in the pillow to muffle his cries when she strokes against that spot that makes him want to scream. "Does it feel good, darling?"

_"Yes,"_  he chokes out, and she hums in approval and kisses behind his ear. When she moves, he can feel the buckles of the toy press from her hip to his, but then it's gone and she's kneeling behind him and he's fair shaking with anticipation.

Her fingers spread inside him, and he can't breathe for the pleasure.

"Are you certain you want this?" she asks softly, and there is no teasing, no seduction in her tone now - he assured her that this is something he enjoys, when she asked, but she is still so sceptical that it's all he can do to reassure her, to encourage her. "You will tell me if it hurts, won't you?"

"I swear I will," he promises, even though it's difficult to form words with her fingers still gently, gently stroking inside him. "Please, darling, I promise I'll tell you-"

The mattress shifts as she positions herself between his legs, fingers of her free hand ghosting over his bad knee. She presses a kiss to the dip of his spine, and he can tell how nervous she is - nervous that she will do something wrong, that she will hurt him, but he just wants her to do it, has fantasised about her doing this more often than he would ever admit aloud and can hardly believe that it is about to happen.

He gasps when she pushes in just slightly, and she leans forward and braces her hand by his head. Her hair tickles his back, and he moans when she sinks further into him. 

"Willas-"

"Please move," he begs, pushing back against her and clutching desperately at the pillow (her pillow, it smells of rosemary). " _Please,_ Sansa-"

She moves, and his mind fades away. He never really dared to hope that she might be interested in doing this, but gods be good he has never been happier to have encouraged her to anything-

"I want to see your face," she whispers, still rocking gently, so carefully, in and out of him. "Please Willas, I can't- I don't want to just-"

And how could he have not considered that? He  _knows_  what the Lannister bastard threatened her with, and still he asked her to do what must seem near exactly the same thing to him, of course she's uncomfortable.

"Move aside a moment, sweetling," he grits out, and he groans when she pulls out - her fingers flutter anxiously against his shoulder, but she moves and he rolls over and gods, the toy looks obscene strapped there against her mound and he's never been more aroused in his life.

"Willas?"

"Kneel here," he says, breathing unevenly, heavily, spreading his legs and guiding her between them. "Like this, darling."

She frowns, tilting her head even as she wraps her long fingers, still slick with the oil, around his cock and strokes slowly.

"It might be easier if..."

She adjusts their position, and suddenly he's spilling back over her lap with the toy buried in his arse and her hand on his cock and it's all he can do not to come right then.

Then she begins to move, hips and hand in tandem, her other hand cradling his bad knee gently to be sure it doesn't get hurt. He wants so much to touch her, to reach out and cradle her firm breasts - she worries that he thinks they're too small, he knows, but he loves them, loves how firm and pert they are, how they fit perfectly into his hands - and to stroke over her soft, soft skin.

Instead, he's so overwhelmed that it's all he can do to grab hold of the blankets underneath himself and try not to come right this instant, like some green boy having his first fuck.

She's so beautiful though, and it all feels so,  _so_  good, even if her rhythm is uneven and she doesn't seem entirely sure that she's doing the right thing - but she's enjoying it, he knows she is, she's wanted to do something for him ever since he let her tie him down (let her, he loved having her in control, loved the feeling of being so entirely at her mercy).

He holds on as long as he can, he does, but it feels so good and she looks so exquisite that he  _can't_ , and when he comes back to himself she's laughing, she's unbuckling the toy and casting it aside and curling against his side.

"That was wonderful," he murmurs, sliding his arm around her and pulling her close. "I'm sorry I didn't think-"

"I wish you didn't have to," she says softly, tucking her head under his chin and nuzzling against his skin. "But we know better for next time now, don't we?"

Her hip fits his hand just as well as her breasts do, which makes him think.

"Do you think it would be unchivalrous of me to leave you unsatisfied, my lady?"


End file.
